


New Dawn Breaks

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-20
Updated: 2009-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"And how does Benedict, the married man, fare?"</i> Written April 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Dawn Breaks

They say there's no better fanatic than the conversed. And it is true. It is true of the Jew and it is true of Benedict, the married man. Having renounced against marriage and its vows, Benedict now bows to his lady and hangs his horn on an invisible –but no, let us not talk about those crude images now, Benedict is a born-again man. This morning at least, this very first dawn. Overwined, he oversleeps in this first day of the New Benedict.

He stirs alive, the sun from the unguarded window and the shadow of a woman (he thinks he knows the curve of those hips, he used to knew it so well that it became invisible for a time, foul time) standing next to his almost-sleeping form.

Beatrice looks like she has been awake for hours, sitting by the edge of the (now marital, he thinks with the sting of a new kind of pride to his side) bed, arms around Bendict, laughing – laughing at him, as ever she has done since they met each other. He can smell her (on the bedcloth, in the air he breathes and finally, blissfully, over his own skin); she smells like a garden path full of crushed leaves from lemon trees.

`And how does Benedict the married man fare this morning, my lord?´ She teases.

Upon a burrowed frown he thinks about it, he feels his limbs coming to life and to the warmth of Beatrice's warmth by his side.

`Mmmm,´ he tries out the sounds at the tip of his tongue, the words unlocked from his heart. `He fares fair, my fair lady.´

Beatrice smiles; wordboy, always a wordsmith romance between them. The only difference is that there, where words used to bite now they fly, gentle, to their lovers' hands. She takes the words from his mouth, to keep them safe, to keep them her own, for what other woman could bear him, Benedict the converse, like she does?

Benedict does not understand his old feud with marriage now; it cannot be that bad, can it? If it means to be woken by his lady Beatrice with the scent of lemon trees and kisses like these.


End file.
